Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(47)

I cheated on the tennis court. My teenage brain had been sure I was only reclaiming what Brett had stolen from me. You need luck to win by cheating, though. Not every game offers up a ripe moment for an ethical lapse.

That match had done the trick for me, and I’d won the day. The season had been drawing to a close, with me in the lead. The following weekend would have sealed to deal—I would have been the first Darlington student to ever take home the scholarship in his junior year.

But before the weekend, Brett had left a note on my beat-up car. Meet me behind the Quickie Mart at six. There’s something I need to ask you. I think we can both get what we want.

Teenage me hadn’t been very cunning. I’d hated cheating, and I wasn’t eager to do it again, but I was intrigued. So I met him like a goddamn fool. He’d been standing there beside his BMW, waiting for me.

“What’s up?” I’d asked, wondering if he’d suggest that we take turns. One of us wins this year, one of us wins next year. I wouldn’t have been able to trust him to stick to a plan, though.

“Here’s the thing,” he’d said, picking his fingernail. “The scholarship has more than one factor.”

“You need a B grade-point average,” I’d said. I’d read the scholarship rules many times.

“And a good standing in the community.” He’d looked up at me. “Which you don’t have.”

“What do you mean?”

He’d folded his arms. “I wonder what the board chairman will think when he finds out your dad is in prison for a violent felony?”

My head had snapped back as if I’d been punched. My mother had gone to great lengths to make sure that nobody knew that. “Who’s going to tell them?”

“I am,” he’d said. “Unless you get injured tomorrow at practice and don’t play on Saturday.”

He made air quotes when he’d said the word “injured.”

There are so many things I might have done in that moment. I might have laughed. I might have lifted my chin and told him where he could shove his obnoxious threat. I might have turned around and walked away without another word.

Any of those solutions would have been better than balling my hand into a fist, wrapping my thumb, and punching him right in the face. He went down in a soul-chilling tumble of limbs onto the dusty asphalt.

“You’re so fucked now,” he’d said as the blood began to run out of his nose.

That’s when I’d finally turned and walked away. And the security camera he’d scoped out ahead of time showed my departure—centered, in crisp detail. The video is the first thing they showed me when I was arrested a day later.

Sometimes I can still picture the grainy image of me coolly walking away from my bleeding competitor. He just lays there on the ground for a while after I go.

The only blessing was that my mother hired a good lawyer immediately. We didn’t have the money, but she did it anyway, putting down her tax refund and borrowing the rest.

Since I wasn’t eighteen yet, my lawyer got the charge knocked down and made sure that the conviction would be expunged a few months after my birthday.

My stupidity had no lasting effects on my prospects. But it got me kicked off the tennis team. With a broken nose, Brett Ferris won the championship the following weekend. He went on to receive the Darlington Beach Club tennis scholarship and a spot at Stanford.

I lost my scholarship to the prep school and had to attend a public high school instead for senior year. So my tennis career was over. Without the prep school to back me, I couldn’t train.

We moved out of Darlington Beach, too, because we couldn’t afford it. Rents were higher. And my mother got tired of hearing women whisper about us in the grocery store. Did you know the kid’s father is in prison? Aggravated assault. Just like his dad.

Hockey became my outlet, and I didn’t look back. Never played tennis again. I liked being part of a team. And let’s face it—if my hockey team had found out about my violent offense, it wouldn’t have made headlines. I’m a nonviolent guy who was convicted of violence. Who now plays a violent sport.

Not in a fighting role, though. The goalie is a puck eater, but he rarely throws a punch. If you ask my teammates, they’ll say I don’t even have a temper.

I hit Brett, though. I (briefly) had a criminal record, which was hideously embarrassing to me and heartbreaking for my mom.

“You’re lucky he won that final tennis championship!” my mom had sobbed the night before my court date.

She was right. It meant Brett couldn’t tell the judge I’d given him a head injury or a permanent disability. Nine years later I’m still upset, though. I let Brett Ferris outplay me.

Never again.





Delilah





It’s dusk by the time Silas and I finally venture outside. We’re both starving.

“Dinner is at seven,” he says. “But there will be snacks and drinks on the beach. I feel like an ass for starving you all day.”

“Oh, I think it was worth it.”

He gives me a hot smile.

Hand in hand, we walk along a path that winds past a cove where kayaks are waiting on the shore. The water is an impossible shade of turquoise blue. “This place is mind-blowing. I think I need to get out more.”